The Most Dangerous Game Part II
by Kira Redbane
Summary: This is a short sequel to The Most Dangerous Game by Richard Connell that my brother told me I wouldn't be able to write. It's my take on what would have happened next.


At first light, I cracked my eyes open slightly. The window was positioned badly, in such a way that the sunlight flowed straight into the sleepers eyes causing discomfort. _That is the only thing I have to complain about for this room, _I think to myself.As I sit and stretch, my eyes involuntarily glance to the side where General Zaroff's body lay motionless. There was a small pool of drying blood under his head, not enough for death, of course. He was merely knocked unconscious from our fight a few hours prior. He had been a formidable opponent, but not even he can continue after a hit to the temple with a heavy glass vase. That very vase lay shattered next to him glittering in the morning beams of sunshine.

Instead of moving straight away, I sit and let my mind wander back to the scuffle over dominance. It had been violent and full of rough hits to weak spots for both of us; Zaroff's eyes had been almost bloodthirsty compared to my desperate filled ones. My tired muscles had been screaming in protest after several intense moments of the brawl. My lucky break came when I backed into the vase almost sending it crashing to the hardwood.

What if I hadn't been able to catch the vase? Would I have made it out alive?

I pushed those thoughts roughly away and climbed out of the soft bed sheets. It wasn't good to think such things. I set my bare feet on the cold floorboards and padded almost noiselessly over to Zaroff's unconscious form for a closer inspection. In the light of day I noticed how haphazardly and heedlessly I had tied the ropes that bound the general's wrists and ankles. I hadn't been thinking clearly from exhaustion and soreness but that was no excuse to leave myself vulnerable like that. He could have woken up and easily gotten free of his bindings then proceeded to gut me like a fish with the pocket knife I carelessly forgot to throw out the window. As I berated myself silently, I kicked the blade away and watched it skid under the bed.

My eyes wandered aimlessly as I thought over plans of action, both to get myself off this forsaken piece of land and to make sure Zaroff wouldn't be able to harm anybody ever again. I could throw him into the sea, but the action - no matter how just - didn't sit right with me. After my experience as the prey I could no longer think of killing anything ever again. The dogs would work, but again the thought of killing caused a searing pain to slice through my chest and reminded me of the game I had won just hours earlier. I would just have to take him with me on my ride home and present him to the authorities, who were more equipped to handle this kind of thing. Now the problem was to get him to the shore.

I stooped down and placed my hands under his armpits and gave a small heave. He wasn't as heavy as I anticipated and I hefted him over my shoulders, remembering to lift with my knees as I had been taught by my grandfather years ago. I slipped on my moccasins before heading downstairs to the front door, leaving it open behind me. Thankfully, the gate was unlatched, and a kick from my foot was all it took for it to swing outward.

On the way to shore, I had to set the general's body down several times to gain back the strength carrying him sapped from me. Eventually, I could hear the lapping of waves against a rocky shoreline, and in my haste to get there I tripped over a tree root. Zaroff went flying from my grasp and I fell onto my hands and knees. Muttering, I stood and dusted off my stinging palms and went to retrieve the general. He had landed a good ways away, just before grass made way to rocks and sand. In the water ahead was a familiar looking yacht with Whitney looking anxiously over the side of the boat into the deep Caribbean Sea. I gave a joyous shout and began to frantically wave my arms, even adding in a few wild jumps. At my cries, Whitney turned his head in my direction and bellowed something to someone I could not see. The boat began to make its way slowly over to me.

I couldn't believe my good fortune. Suddenly, there was a knife pressed to my throat, and the stroke of good luck turned sour. Foul smelling breath rushed past my ear as Zaroff's heavy breathing gradually subsided to small pants. He pressed the blade's edge deeper into the skin just above my collarbone, drawing blood. Just as the general was about to speak a gunshot rang out and the pressure of the man's body fell away from mine. I looked over to the boat and saw that Whitney had his gun out and it was smoking. I smiled and gave a happy yell of thanks and waited impatiently as the vessel brought the feeling of gratefulness and safety towards me.


End file.
